


Wednesday the 15th

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, RPF, real person fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Translated into Russian <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2602478">here</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Cat/pseuds/Dreaming_Cat">Dreaming_Cat.</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	Wednesday the 15th

**Author's Note:**

> Translated into Russian [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2602478) by [Dreaming_Cat.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Cat/pseuds/Dreaming_Cat)

The thing is, Ben’s place is more convenient, it really is. He’s good like that, offering Martin a comfortable place to set up camp the next few days while they’re shooting, and of course Martin accepts, why wouldn’t he? It beats the hell out of the massively inconvenient commute back to his house, sure as hell beats a ruddy hotel room.

They both have things to do after that day is called - _late_ \- around five in the afternoon. They’re both knackered, completely worn out from a shoot that was called for the early morning hours. They both go too hard when they’re in character, each one playing off of the other, giving their absolute best, that just delivering a page’s worth of script is taxing. 

Martin shows up later in the evening, his thick scarf somehow managing to look incredibly hip even as it covers the lower half of his face. “Did you go to _Brighton_ for your dry cleaning?” Ben asks with a quiet little amused huff and opens the door to him. Martin just glares, holds out his hand, shoves the bottle of wine into the center of Ben’s chest.

“1985,” Ben says in surprise, holding the bottle up for inspection in one of his massive hands. “Tempranillo, really?”

“Fuck off,” Martin huffs, shouldering his way through the door. “You’re not the only one who’s known to be a posh arsehole from time to time.” With that, he slumps until his shoulder bag hits the floor, moves to fold his garment bag over one of the hard-backed chairs in the sitting room. 

Ben shrugs and locks up, dangling the bottle between two fingers as he watches Martin look around, taking in the place. It’s changed and it hasn’t.

“You redecorated,” Martin notices, running a hand along the dust-free mantle above cold, empty fireplace. 

Ben rolls his eyes and moves across the room to take up the garment bag. “ _I_ … did not. I gave someone colors and an _idea_ and they redecorated.”

“You like it?” he unwinds his scarf, waves Ben off when he goes to take his coat. He knows where the appropriate closet is, after all. 

“Well, I’m not here much, which is fine because there’s something… it doesn’t feel like home.” The hollowness in his voice, he didn’t expect that. 

Martin smiles, all teeth. “There certainly aren’t as many books as last time.”

“Hm,” Ben hums, non-committal, “maybe that’s it.” They share smiles in the silence and after a moment, Ben shrugs the garment bag lower on his arm. “You’ll be just back through here.”

They get Martin situated and find their way to the kitchen. It takes Ben a moment to locate the cupboard with his wine glasses. “You’d think they’d be with the bar…” Martin says in obvious delight as Ben rounds on another row of cupboards and begins pulling them open one by one.

“Is this,” he leans in, pulls out a small pitcher, dangles it on an index finger. “A sauce boat?”

“Looks like it,” Martin confirms.

“How in the world… I didn’t know I had one!”

He can’t help it now, he’s laughing at the bewildered look on Ben’s face, hands pressed to the kitchen island in an attempt to stave the giddiness. “Do you need one?”

“Would you think I would need one?”

“I would not,” Martin’s laughs peter out. “But you never know, do you?”

Ben places it back in the cupboard, unearths the stemware and locates the corkscrew on the first try. It isn’t one of those complicated gadgets, but small and stainless steel, will do just the trick. That’s the thing about Benedict, he’s rather spartan in his needs, doesn’t require something over complicated when simple will do. He uncorks the wine in short order and pours it out into glasses perfectly, the intense purple coming just to touch the most rounded portion of the glass.

Martin picks up his and swirls it a bit, admiring the legs. 

“Are we letting this breathe?” Ben asks, picking up his own.

Martin brings the rim to his nose and inhales, eyes fluttering at the scent. “I don’t know, are we?”

“No,” Ben says, cheeky. “We are not.”

“Cheers, then.” Their glasses touch and the sound of chiming crystal fills the space as they take a sip. 

They’re quiet together in the way that friends who have known one another for ages are, comfortably, warmly quiet. Ben meanders back into the sitting room, socked feet making no noise on the floor. Martin ducks into the entryway and undoes his own shoes, nestles them in next to Ben’s and goes to find Ben sitting on what looks to be a very uncomfortable sofa.

Martin sinks down on the other end, is surprised at the comfortable give the couch has. “This new too?”

“Yeah, _no_ idea where it came from but I think it’s my favorite thing in this place. Looks austere and hard but you sit on it and…” Ben leans back and spreads his arms across the back.

“Mm, yeah, quite nice,” Martin does the same, just to try it and their fingers brush briefly; Martin sits back up, takes up his wine glass. ”This isn’t bad either,” he holds up his wine to the light and takes another deep draw from it.

Ben laughs, “oh shit, are you waiting for me to compliment your taste?”

“Always,” Martin confirms, mock serious.

“Well it’s brilliant,” Ben says with a happy amount of affection in his voice. “Well done you.”

The conversation they fall into is easy, discussing what they’re reading, Ben trying to convince Martin to take one of his album suggestions and just give it a shot “for once!” 

“People think I get all of my music from you! It’s unfair! And this is _good_ , I swear.”

“Alright, alright,” Martin throws up his hands and gives in, watches as Ben moves to hook his iPod up to the sound unit nestled away next to the fireplace. Guitar twangs through the system and they sit back, Ben surreptitiously watching Martin’s face all the while, assessing his level of interest in the music.

Ben always knows that when Martin begins tapping his left foot, he’s into it; it’s almost a bit like Sherlock, Ben likes to think, and smiles when he sees the rhythm of the drums being meted out on the carpet. “Hah!” Ben crows and Martin hides his face behind his wine glass, downs the entirety of it.

“Oh alright, it’s not awful,” he concedes and tops them both up, killing the bottle. Glancing at the clock to find it only nine in the evening, he shakes the empty bottle up for Ben’s benefit. “Seems I underestimated us.”

“Thank goodness I anticipated you being a bit of a lush this evening,” Ben says and uncurls his left leg from beneath himself, disappears to locate another bottle. When he returns, new vintage in hand, he’s only ever-so-slightly wobbly, as evidenced with how hard he falls into the cushions. 

“Oh, hey, fuck you,” Martin says and snatches the bottle straight from his hands, opening it with far less grace than Ben had the first time. They don’t even bother getting new glasses, just pour the new against the remnants of the first wine.

The album peters out and Ben manages to put on a new one without much in the way of an argument, and they get down to the remnants of the Malbec rather quickly. Ben’s cheeks are rosy, eyes crinkled in delight as he recounts for Martin how he managed to embarrass himself in front of Harrison Ford a _second_ time just before Graham Norton taped, and Martin is overcome, doubled over, crying in laughter.

Ben chuckles himself out, hanging his head over the back of the sofa as he stretches his arms back and sinks into the cushion as much as it will allow. He turns his head slightly, makes out Martin in profile, color high in his cheeks, wiping stray tears from his eyes. When Martin looks as him, his laughter peters out and he’s left just looking at Ben, goofy grin smoothing off of his face. 

It’s been a hell of a year and he honestly doesn’t think he’d have gotten through half of it without the stupid text messages and random phone calls from Martin. Los Angeles to London to New Zealand and back; their friendship has crisscrossed the globe and Ben is more thankful for it than he’s sure he could ever put into words. 

Martin licks his lips, teeth grazing slightly over the bottom but he doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t waver.

Ben’s eyes soften and he grips along the back of the couch, knuckles turning white. It’s the moments like these that he wants to touch, just to see, just to find out what it feels like. Only a little, he just wants to _try_ it because, well, he wants it, plain and simple.

Slowly, Martin leans back, into Ben’s hand, the back of his neck against warm thumb and rests there. 

Ben doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move for what feels like the longest eternity. His fingers itch and shiver and he thinks that if he turns his hand over, well, that’s a different game entirely, one he doesn’t know the faintest thing about. But he could, right now, he could and it would be alright. Instead, he allows just the smallest indulgence, thumb shifting to caress the back of his head, Martin’s hair tickling along Ben’s skin.

It’s something, it’s surely _something_.

It’s something they’ll never admit to, but it will linger around the rims of their irises, that they will only acknowledge when they catch one another’s gaze from across the room. They will think _this was never a thing that could have happened; this was a thing that could have happened._

_This is a thing that would have changed too much of everything_

_no_

“I’m not,” Ben wants to say, because he isn’t. But he can’t, because those same words are lingering in Martin’s gaze and he can’t risk fracturing this, this _right now_. 

_I’m not_. Neither of them are but right now, they’re allowing themselves this moment, this stupid, dangerous, indulgent moment. 

Martin’s eyes close on a sad sigh and Ben takes the opportunity to swallow the lump that has risen unheeded in this throat. He thinks _no_ just as he thinks _please, yes_ but Martin’s eyes slide open and after a second more, he pulls away.

Refills their glasses. 

Ben’s hand falls to the sofa; he feels half-full.

“This,” Martin points a shaky finger to the ceiling, as another song shuffles to life. He sucks in a long breath. “This isn’t bad either.”


End file.
